A Five Score Prelude
by brittney
Summary: An account of the fifty years prior to the War of the Ring- revolving around the seperate lives of Frodo and Sam- and told mostly through the eyes of those who loved them: Hamfast, Bell, Drogo, Primula, and Bilbo.
1. A Prologue: The Decision

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Disclaimer: I don't own Lord of the Rings or any of it's characters and I cannot claim to hope to do justice to the genius of Tolkien with any of my writing- yet I do it respectfully as an ardent admirer of Middle Earth with it's evils and innocence alike. Thus my story is humbly submitted.

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This series is a revision of my former story, "The Five Score Prelude". While writing it I found that I had left my original story goal and found myself simply "going with it". My characters had deviated from what they were meant to be and their actions went without motive- so I started over. This first chapter is VERY much like the first chapter of the old story because I simply revised it- although the changes are crucial. The rest of the chapters however, are completely new.

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Author's Note: This story is to be the first of a lengthy series detailing the half a century leading up to the War of the Ring- _a five score prelude_. It is not a story of only happy times; it is not a story of only sad times. My upmost hope for it is to be _realistic_, at least in most aspects. I readily recognize that in plot and character I will not be completely true to Tolkien because this is my take on it- not his. So take my story with a grain of salt (and enjoy it, too!)

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A FIVE SCORE PRELUDE

1368-1418

A Prologue: The Decision

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* This particular chapter is a _flashforward_ that takes place at the end of this story- the eve before the journey begins.

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September 21, 1418 S.R. 

There is a hum in the air as the evening breeze rustles the leaves and the grasses, bidding all hush for the coming of night. And everyone heeds it, though nobody hears it above the bustle that comes at the end of the day. 

A farmer is checking his stock one last time with an armload of crackling hay, while the baker walks in time to his whistling tune from shop to hot supper on the table at home. A husband is returning, wife in hand, from a leisurely afternoon stroll. A baby cries from a fire-lit room somewhere and a cow lows in the meadow. The robins finally retire their song, displaced by the echoes of distant owls. 

And when all seems silent the nocturnal orchestra takes up the stage, it's deep and haunting melodies blending dully into a lullaby the rocks the world into a peaceful slumber. And amidst the sound is found a placid quiet. 

And there he sits. His crooked back to the sturdy door of his home.

Still. 

He was there in the glory of sunsplashed color.

He was there when the hues began to fade.

He was there when the horizon exploded like a fire. 

As it mellowed into violet and the silhouettes found themselves new shapes.

Still he sat as the shadows lengthened and still he remains.

And there is silence in the meaning of the word. For what is silence but the echo of eternity amassed into the now? But there! it is broken again in the slight of an exhale. He breathes. And as he lets go again the smoke rises undisturbed and unnoticed in the covering of dark. 

He sits. And though he is hidden altogether from a distance, one can, if they come closer make him out amidst the joint glow of dim lamp and pale firelight within. 

He is dressed modestly. A pair of patched trousers, a ragged hat- and similarly conditioned shirt and jacket. He wears no shoes. His large, bare feet are conspicuously battered and rent with thick, curly hair; white as the stuff on his head. 

And his face. His age is betrayed in deep lines, as though time itself had etched and chiseled the cares of his years into visible form.

A fragile, old figure he seems to be and yet one who knows him can see his paradox: a bent and broken frame, worn and weakened by the toil of years and yet stronger for them. For despite his frailness of features, a light in his eyes reveals that he is still very much alive. It glistens, reflected, neither from the rusty lamp nor the cozy fire within, but from his youth that he remembers as he sits, pipe in hand. 

He had been an energetic boy. He still remembers climbing trees, running about the meadow and fishing with his friends back in Tighfield. He'd played hard… but he'd worked hard, too. 

The ancient now pauses his pondering and looks down at his hands- so scarred, so thick with callus and yet loose with age. Yes, there it is. The scar he'd gotten from a nasty rope burn so many years ago.

He draws from the pipe and as the wisps ascend he looks again the scar and winces. And it would seem almost comical, for he heeds not the countless others that criss-cross his hands, nor even the one that notches his left thumb. No- these aren't scars- they are his pride and joy. They are marks of love- love of his favorite work and pastime. He often points them out to youngsters saying: 

"See that, my lad? Yes, that was a grisly gash. I got it one day with my trowel. I was making for a nasty ol' root trying to sprout amongst my taters and forgot to move my own hand out the way. My own hand! Can you believe it? Oh, I tell 'ee it was a bad gash to be sure- but you know, soon's I got it bandaged up I went straight back to work. Don't you know it- that ol' root didn't last another five minutes!" Or:

"See those teeth marks, lassie? I was just weedin' in y garden. Mindin' my own business when ninnyhammers! up came a rabbit- right out o' the greens I tell 'ee! An' it bit me! Bit me right on me hand! An' I'd never done't any harm at all. But it bit me!" 

And he laughs despite the frightened children's faces for though they mark the bad side of his beloved occupation, they remind him of his younger years and the hours he spent on hand and knee there in that blessed soil.

But this scar… He sighs heavily. 

He loves his family. Always has. He'd loved his wife and wonderful children. 

Such wonderful children… he loses his train of thought in a burst of affection for them.

Hamson, the strong one. His spitting image, his pride and joy. All grown up now with a family of his own, he is as fine a hobbit as one could hope to meet. 

Oh- but he would have made a good gardener...

But no- though the boy loved his father dearly it was his grandfather's handiwork that had caught his interest. 

Roping. 

He sighs and looks again at the scar. 

Then there is Halfred. So much like his older brother. The both of them prefer the work that is permanent, unapt to change and not in need of vigilant tending. Stonecraft is his livelihood and he has done some good work, to be sure. 

He smiles. He is proud. They are good boys, both of them. The values he's struggled, if perhaps a bit too sternly, to instill in them are obvious. They are good, honest, hardworking… but then…oh… 

Why does he have to dwell on their work? Does it really matter? They make their living. 

They even enjoy what they do… to a degree… and yet... at the end of the day it is their job. It's their work. But then isn't that how it should be? A job is just a job, but when it's done it's done and then it's back to really living. 

But the old man shakes his head despite himself and his defenses. 

Work should never be just work. One should do something because they want to do it. It should be something enjoyed, something treasured, something… loved. Something that is worth the hours it takes, not merely hours wasted or "put in" for that next pay and another mug of ale at the inn. 

No- time is much too precious for that. Much too priceless to be cheapened by the notion that it simply worth the day's wage. 

But anyway… they are good boys after all. 

"Good boys," he repeats out loud, breaking the silence, and nodding as if a confirmation is required from the vacancy about him. 

And then there are his girls. Such sweet girls. Yes, he'd once told his Bell he'd only wanted boys, but… they had grown on him. They are his treasures- with their dark locks and deep eyes; they are so beautiful.

Daisy, the oldest, the sensible one. May, the hopeless romantic. And precious Marigold- the baby of the family- so grown up now. 

He smiles.

She had been the most inquisitive of the three. Always asking questions. Always showing her father new ways to look at things. Of all his children she was the most like his youngest son…

His youngest son…

And what was he?

The most like his father and yet the most different. 

Yes, Samwise always had been different. Oh, but the joy he had found in his father's beloved work. He reveled in it. He seemed to take it to a whole new level. And his father had seemed, if it was possible, to find yet even more passion for the chore as he watched it grow in his son's eyes. Because unlike his brothers, Samwise heard the music… 

In fact, he'd always had potential and so, though it was perhaps unintentional… his father had been the hardest on him. Oh, the times the boy's face had fallen at some new and unnecessary reprimand, and oh, the father's guilt and regret at those times, especially when they had been criticized by his mother. 

"You just need to be kinder, Hamfast," she'd say harshly after supper sometimes. "Have you seen the work little Samwise has done today? He's been as busy as bee, but have you said one kind word to him?" At this she'd pause for effect and the chance to give her husband another warning glance before softening her tone. 

"He loves you, Ham. I see it in his eyes. His deepest desire is just to make you happy." 

"And what does he get?" Bell would then turn back to the sink and imitate her husband's voice with a hint of sarcasm. "You missed that weed, Samwise you ninnyhammer," she'd say gruffly. Or, "Go trim that hedge, Samwise, and when you're done go do this and do that…" She'd trail off aimlessly, but she'd make her point. She had been a shrewd woman, that. Shrewd and wise and wonderful.

Bell…

The old hobbit allows a few lonely tears to tread his empty cheeks but them quickly wipes them away.

Because there's his youngest son…

Why had he been so hard on him? 

Because he'd been mischievous? No. Dear Sam had never wanted to cause any trouble and at any rate, he had always been too scared of his father to try. The old man winces again, more painfully at this than at the scar.

The scar. The physical reminder of the differences he'd had with his own father. But 

Samwise had never fought back, never complained. Well… 

Only once…

Usually he'd just go back to his chores, feigning a look of indifference clearly betrayed in his eyes. Indeed, through the years he'd tried and tried to hide his feelings, but more than any of his boys he'd worn his heart right out on his sleeve.

Had the discipline been to promote his son's obvious natural talent? Well, yes… and no. He'd always known his Sam-lad was good and pushed him to become better and yet…

He knows why he'd been so hard on Sam. 

He sighs.

Sam was the dreamer. He had these… hopes- lofty hopes. Fantastical hopes of elves and silly obsessions with fairy stories and other such nonsense. Such things were nice to listen to once in great while, but to believe in… He just didn't want his son to be different. He didn't want people to be saying things about him… the way they used to do about Bilbo- the source of all Samwise's peculiarities. He'd known his son wasn't an airy fool. Sam just hadn't always been practical. Oh, but he was now. With his father's constant reminders he had become perhaps even more responsible than his older brothers. 

And yet Sam had these _ideas_- thinking he belonged in the business of his betters. 

Now Mr. Bilbo had been a wonderful and generous hobbit, Hamfast would not deny. He had always appreciated and respected his old master greatly- but that's exactly who he'd been. His master. 

Of course, it wasn't that Mr. Bilbo hadn't been a friend as well. In fact- he had been the exception to caste- kind despite the circumstances, jovial despite one's income, and concerned despite one's social standing. And as he had been, so his young heir had become.

Yet… it's the thing that's taken for granted as is most easily lost. And a friendship with the Bagginses was not a thing worth losing. And that is why, though class had been less a barrier with Mr. Bilbo, he had respected it all the more. For he can remember times less fortunate and people less forgiving. He glances again at the scar.

He can still picture a spring day so many years ago when the boy had come home all excited from a visit at Bag 

"Guess what story Frodo told me today!" He'd exclaimed with a smile.

Well, the smile didn't last much longer, that's for certain. He'd soon been cured of the flaw with a quick spanking and hard scolding. It was the first time his father had ever heard his son address the master so leniently. And the last time.

Now he hadn't been harsh on the boy out of spite… but out of experience. He just didn't want Sam to get hurt.

And it truly broke the father's heart to see the boy so attached to the young heir- for he knew such a friendship could never be. 

Now, there was nothing wrong in being friendly with the masters. He'd enjoyed his chats with Mr. Bilbo on the growing of roots and other such undertakings… but to be seeking out camaraderie? That was overstepping the bounds. 

And so he had taught his son.

It had taken some doing, to be sure. Some experience. Some humility. Some tears. 

But Sam had learned. Indeed, he had blossomed. And he was finally going turn his life around- give up his absurd fantasies and settle down, as any decent and respectable hobbit should.

…but when he is gone…

The old hobbit starts suddenly, his thoughts broken by the sound of approaching footsteps. 

He waits and watches and finally sees the figure round the bend. A young hobbit by the looks but then, of course- those shining eyes could be no other's.

"Why good day, Mr. Frodo! Or good night, I should say. Isn't it a bit late to be out of doors?" 

"Why, you know I tend to wander about after hours," he replies, smiling. "It's good for the heart… and the soul," he trails off. "But I should be asking the same of you! What keeps you up so late tonight, Master Hamfast?" 

"Me? Oh, nothing really. I was just musing, as you might say. Thinking about… things."

The younger hobbit looks at his elder curiously, then shrugs and turns back toward the lane. "Well, it's off to bed for me," he says. "And I daresay you should be heading that way yourself."

"I think I will. Good ev'nin' to you, Master Baggins."

"And good evening to you," the younger replies and turns to leave, but then stops. 

"Thank you."

The elder looks up at him, confused. 

"You know, I left this morning without my lunch."

A puzzled silence.

"Yes," the younger laughs. "I clean forgot it. I was some fifteen minutes into my walk when suddenly I hear this loud breathing. And I think to myself, 'who could be out this far and _breathing _so loudly?'" He chuckles. "And then I see Sam. 

"He stopped his gasping as soon as I noticed him and tried to tell me that he had walked out to find me because I'd forgotten my lunch. And I thought- _walked?_ For from his red face I could clearly see that he had sprinted the whole thing." He smiles. "But I let him have his way. I'd have been one sorry hobbit about noon-time had it not been for your son's delivery."

"Well," the old hobbit stutters. "There is naught to praise. It was the right thing to do."

"But not everyone would have done the right thing."

Silence.

"But it's more than just the lunch, see," the young hobbit sighs. "I don't know how you did it. I didn't know it was possible for so much… _goodness_… to be in a person, but you raised your son up right. And despite…" He stops suddenly, embarrassed. 

"I guess I don't really know why I'm telling you all this. I just wanted to say thank you." He pauses. "For yesterday, for today… and especially for tomorrow." And blushing he turns back down the lane. 

The older hobbit watches him fondly until he is safe behind his door. He had said nothing else, of course, for there had been nothing else to say. Yet his thoughts are swayed. Doubts are fading.

Quietly, he picks up his old lamp and extinguishes it. 

He rises carefully; leaning on his arms and against the door, trying to keep his balance and from straining his back. Once standing, he sighs, relieved, and goes inside. He walks stiffly down the hall but suddenly stops, pausing at a door. Cautiously, he pushes it open. In the dim light, he makes out his son's face. All grown up. He wasn't that naïve little boy anymore. 

Tears start the father's eyes and he wipes them, surprised; yet he remains. He watches the steady rise and fall of his son's chest as he breathes deep. What is happening behind closed eyes? What dreams has he retreated to? Are they as wonderful as he would like? Or… as magical as he deserves? Is he in a world of elves and dragons? Where it doesn't matter how one looks or how one acts or… what one's social status is?

And suddenly he is crying, overwhelmed by the years of regret- needs that went unfulfilled, possibilities never explored, words that had been said… and words that went unsaid…

And amidst the mist of tears he finds new clarity. Why had he wasted so much time fretting over what kind of son Sam could have been, just to find out in the end what kind of father he had not?

And then, bending ever so slowly, he kisses his boy on the cheek. 

He leaves as silently as he had come. There is one last thing to do and anyway, he has finally decided.

I have been working on this story for over a half a year now and am still working out the all the details- therefore, it is very important to me. And as I want to write it to the best of my ability, all constructive criticism is welcomed and appreciated. Thank you. 


	2. A Special Night

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Disclaimer: I don't own Lord of the Rings or any of it's characters and I cannot claim to hope to do justice to the genius of Tolkien with any of my writing- yet I do it respectfully as an ardent admirer of Middle Earth with it's evils and innocence alike. Thus my story is humbly submitted.

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A FIVE SCORE PRELUDE

1368-1418

Chapter 1: A Special Night

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* This next chapter takes place in "_real time_" and marks the chronological beginning of this series- 50 years earlier.

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September 22, 1368 S.R. 

Hamfast hummed softly to himself as he sat alone at the wooden table, its rough surface cleared and scrubbed and shining dully in the firelight. A single glass sat before him, its sparkling contents untouched. He chuckled softly to himself and looked out the window in front of him. Beyond the dark of nightfall was a light. Another fire burned in the distance in another room less empty. 

He reached for the glass.

"Papa?" A familiar voice. 

And there he was. All one and a half feet of him.

"Hamson." His father said a bit sternly at being interrupted. "You're supposed to be asleep."

The boy looked at the floor, shuffling his feet.

"Ham?" The tone was softer now.

"Will you sleep with me tonight?"

"I slept with you last night."

"I know, but…"

"But…"

A silence.

"Ham?"

The child looked up solemnly and sighed. "There's a troll outside my window."

"Oh, is that so?" 

"Yes, Papa," the boy said resignedly. "It's so."

"Just like there was a goblin under your bed last night?"

Little Hamson dropped his eyes sadly.

The father bade his son draw nearer. Gently, he laid strong hands on little shoulders; leaned and gazed in little hazel eyes. 

"Ham?"

"Yes, Papa?"

"And what did I tell you last night?"

"That there's no such thing as goblins."

"And?"

"And they're only in faerie stories."

"And Hamson…"

"Yes, Papa?"

"…there's no such thing as trolls."

"Yes, Papa."

"Ham, you can't go believin' every story you hear."

The child sighed and dropped his gaze. "I know…" but then, "Papa?"

"Yes?"

"Why is tonight special?"

"Who told you it was special?"

"No one. But you only drink that stuff on special nights," the boy pointed to the glass on the table. 

"It's somebody's birthday."

"And they gave that juice to you?"

His father broke a smile. "Yes. It was a present."

"Oh…" But the boy's face was still twisted in curiosity. "Papa? Why doesn't momma have a glass like yours?"

"Because she's asleep."

"Why is she so sleepy?"

"Because of the baby inside of her."

"That makes her sleepy?"

"Yes."

"Oh…"

Hamfast settled back in his seat and stared out the window, dismissing his son; but the motion went unheeded. 

"Papa?"

The father sighed. "Yes, Hamson?"

"When momma has the baby will that be a special night?"

"Of course."

"Is every night a baby is born special?"

"Aye, son, it is. But you need to go to bed now."

"Okay… but… when the baby is born can I have a glass of that stuff, too?"

"No."

"Oh. Okay. But when will the next special time be?"

The older hobbit paused before responding and looked back at the boy. "Don't you know, Hamson?"

"What, Papa?"

His father offered a tired grin and scooted back the chair, patting his lap. Obediently the boy clambered onto his knees and was soon wrapped securely in his sturdy arms.

"Every night a father holds his son is special."

"Oh." And for once the child was silent, a thoughtful expression on his face.

The older hobbit ruffled his son's hair. "Now off to bed to with you."

"Okay," the child relented with a disappointed sigh and jumped down.

"Hamson?"

"Yes, Papa?"

"Trolls don't come out on special nights."

Feigning a brave smile, the boy nodded and trotted back down the hall, leaving his father alone in his chair. He sat still a moment longer, listening, then turned back to the window and the light beyond. He picked up the glass and drained it in a silent toast.

"Happy birthday," he said quietly. And he put the glass down and went off to sleep with his son.

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an autumn night is faded now

a baby found it's voice

no night fowl serenaded

no nocturnal choir rejoice

the heavens did not open

and no shooting star burst forth

to herald this

the coming of the Hero of the North

thus the evening finds tomorrow

with the rising of the sun

of the days that he will know

a five-score prelude has begun


	3. A Visit: Part 1

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Disclaimer: I don't own Lord of the Rings or any of it's characters and I cannot claim to hope to do justice to the genius of Tolkien with any of my writing- yet I do it respectfully as an ardent admirer of Middle Earth with it's evils and innocence alike. Thus my story is humbly submitted.

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A FIVE SCORE PRELUDE

1368-1418

A Visit: Part 1

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September 23, 1368 S.R. 

Bilbo stepped lightly out his door and shut it. The fall breeze was cool against his cheek and he smiled. It had been much too hot of late for his liking.

The lawn was still green and lush and vibrant, as were the flowers that trimmed the main entrance- but the trees were just beginning to change and their leaves glinted golden in the bright of midday.

He walked down the path to the road briskly, whistling an unfamiliar tune. In his hands was a green, paper package onto which a white envelope was tightly secured with a silver ribbon.

He was making a visit.

"Hullo Hamfast!" he said, when his gardener came into sight. He had been kneeling by the far rose bushes, shears in hand.

"Hello, Mr. Bilbo," he said, looking up from his work. "T'is a good day for a walk. One can't ask for better weather than we've got."

"One certainly can't," Bilbo replied happily. "And I intend to enjoy it."

"As you should, Mr. Bilbo, sir."

"Did you happen to try that bottle of Old Wineyards?"

"That I did, sir. Thank you, sir!" the gardener said with a smile. "Just last night, in fact. And it was a proper 1320, to be sure."

"That's wonderful, Hamfast! I'm glad you enjoyed it. I had a bit myself at my little party. Oh! Which reminds me! I'm going out of town. It seems mine wasn't the only birthday yesterday. My cousin Primula- she's my cousin Drogo's wife- had her baby only just last night."

"Indeed, Mr. Bilbo?"

"Yes, and a boy, too. Though Primula's in a bit of shock, it seems. Poor lass. She's been having fits, strange dreams, I've been told. So I thought I'd go down to Buckland and pay them a call. They've been staying with Rory Brandybuck in Brandy Hall- Primula being his sister and all- and I've been wanting to see the old chap anyway. It might be my last chance before winter sets in."  
"Aye, that it might."

"Well anyway, I'm borrowing a wagon from a friend in Bywater. A couple of lads already took my stuff down for me, so I'll just be leaving from there. I won't be gone too long- no more than a week or two. And I was wondering if you could keep watch on Bag End for me 'til I'm back?"

"Why, of course I could, sir. Be glad to."

"Thanks. Oh! And could you do me another favor? Keep it locked. That young Lotho's in town and he's up to no good, seemingly. He was caught spying in windows last night."

"Is that so?" A strange look of realization spread across the gardener's face.

"Is something wrong, Hamfast?"

"What? Oh, no. Nothing, Mr. Bilbo, sir. I was just thinking."

"Oh. Well- you have the keys and I think there's some cakes on the table that need to be taken care of. I wouldn't want them to spoil before I return," he winked.

"Of course not!" the other said with a grin in return.

"Well, then I'm off! Good day, Hamfast!"

"Good day, sir!"

And with that, the old hobbit struck back down the lane.

The gardener, however, did not resume his clipping. Instead, he put down his shears and walked down the hill toward the far window of his home. Beyond the glass was his son's bedroom. Below it… were footprints.

"Trolls," he muttered and went back to work.


	4. Drogo

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Disclaimer: I don't own Lord of the Rings or any of it's characters and I cannot claim to hope to do justice to the genius of Tolkien with any of my writing- yet I do it respectfully as an ardent admirer of Middle Earth with it's evils and innocence alike. Thus my story is humbly submitted.

****

A FIVE SCORE PRELUDE

1368-1418

Drogo

September 23, 1368 S.R. 

Drogo considered the dreary horizon with a frustrated sigh as he walked down the well-trodden path through the trees. His shoulders were slouched, hands resigned to his breech pockets, a melancholy expression on his face.

He hadn't been down this way for months, he mused. Of course, there really hadn't been reason to. _She_ was the one who really enjoyed the trip. And she was stuck inside, _much _to her dislike one might add. Keeping Prim indoors was like caging up a wild animal.

Ahh, there it was. A little bush grew into the path and it curved- just so- then one more corner and… 

There it was.

The sight was a bit anti-climatic for the old hobbit. He paused as he surveyed the wide river, its swellings and breakings humming softly as they labored slowly onward toward what end Drogo did not know, nor did he care… his mind was elsewhere.

He walked to the edge of the bank and looked out across the water. A mist hung in the air, but he could see something… oh… it was nothing but a sparrow darting through the trees on the western shore.

Primula loved this river. She used to spend hours on its banks, though what she did there, Drogo could not say; daydreaming or making up snatches of poetry more than likely. Yes, that's what she would do. Still- he could not understand what she found so fascinating about the place.

She was just like that.

He wondered suddenly if she was still sleeping. Perhaps she'd woken up. Maybe he should go back and check and… no. Rory had all but pushed him out the door to make him leave her for even this short a time- said he fussed too much over her and needed some time to himself.

'I don't think I fuss too much over her," he mumbled to himself. But there it was. It wasn't as though he had anything else to do.

He caught himself gazing at his flicking reflection- his thinning hair and expanding waistline. _This_ certainly wasn't the hobbit that had married his beautiful bride some thirteen years ago. And neither pride nor the best intended assurances that his face really wasn't _that_ wrinkled or that his hair really wasn't _that_ white could deny the fact.

He was old.

But it wasn't that bad, really. After all, his father had lived nearly a century. Yes, he had at least a good thirty years to go. But that wasn't what bothered him… no. 

His son did.

Drogo's _father_ had been only forty; _Drogo_ was sixty. Long familiar doubts began again to fill his mind, visions of a boy looking up at his invalid father. 

'Why won't you chase me, daddy?'

No! He would not… could not… dwell on them now. It wouldn't change anything, and worry never helped anyone. Besides there was too much to be done. It was getting colder. The trip back to Hobbiton wasn't all that long, but with a baby in tow…

Of course Rory _had_ offered to let them stay through the winter. They would be more than well provided for and Bingo would have plenty of willing babysitters in Brandy Hall…

There! He had done it again. It was Frodo now, wasn't it? _Frodo. _Who needs a memory, anyway? He chuckled despite himself, but then he shivered suddenly.

The breeze had picked up a bit. 

Yes, it was time to go back and check on Prim, whatever Rory thought!

He smiled… Rory was a good brother-in-law and a better friend- a bit queer he had once thought (he _was_ a Brandybuck after all!), but a kinder, more hospitable hobbit he had yet to find.

But thinking of hospitality, Drogo's mind began to wander to the dinner he'd had earlier that day. Were there any of those mince pies left? 

Perhaps he _would _spend just a little more time to himself. Perhaps in the pantry?

And with that thought, Drogo struck back down the path with a little more conviction in his step than he'd had when he came. 


End file.
